


early this morning

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Crying Dean, Emotional Hurt, End of the World, First Time, M/M, Season/Series 05, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 20:58:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12240504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: The first time Dean has sex with Castiel, it’s in the backseat of a 1948 Buick Super 8 convertible, the remnants of the chassis tucked in the back corner of Singer Salvage.





	early this morning

The first time Dean has sex with Castiel, it’s in the backseat of a 1948 Buick Super 8 convertible, the remnants of the chassis tucked in the back corner of Singer Salvage.

There’s no rhyme or reason to it, no discernible driving force that makes Dean drag Castiel out of the living room at a two in the morning and into the scrapyard, past the hulking and deteriorating corpses of vehicle after vehicle, patinated and rusting to dust. But the one thing Dean knows, in the burgeoning May humidity, is that he needs a distraction: from the apocalypse, from Sam’s plan to say yes as soon as the sun rises, to devour as much blood as he can without hurling. In the dark, the weight is unbearable, crushing his shoulders the longer he stands.

Insomnia pricks behind his eyes; his heart palpates in his chest dangerously fast; his body won’t stop shaking, no matter how tightly he holds Castiel’s hand.

Their first kiss isn’t like Dean imagined: Castiel is still through it, his body pressed against the quarter panel with Dean’s arms bracketing his hips; he tastes like the peanut butter he stole from Dean, a day expired but the only thing Dean could stomach without dry-heaving; stubble scrapes Dean’s cheeks, soft but terrifying. Every bit of it is a reminder that this is real, that Castiel is flesh and bone under Dean’s fingertips, and if Castiel is real, then the apocalypse isn’t a dream, and Dean is going to watch his brother die tomorrow, all for the greater good.

Not even Castiel can take that pain away, no matter how hard he tries.

Cold hands cradle Dean’s cheeks after a long, awkward second, and he melts against Dean. For what Castiel lacks in experience, he makes up for in practical knowledge, and soon, Dean finds himself shoved against the rear fender; Castiel lifts him with both hands under his thighs, setting him down on the trunk with Dean’s legs around his waist. Under his shirt, Dean sweats from the humidity and proximity, Castiel’s touch igniting every nerve in his body, setting him ablaze.

“Fuck me,” Dean moans when Castiel kisses his neck, teeth scraping just beneath his ear. Sex is the last thing he wants right now, but it’s always worked in the past to keep his mind off of the inevitable. Hands and mouths and clever fingers always get him off, but it always ends too soon, reality creeping in once the afterglow is gone.

All he wants is for someone to hold him, but admitting that he wants the touch of another man is a sin in and of itself. One more thing to go to Hell for, for wanting Castiel to cradle him, to touch him, to love him as intimately as he can.

That doesn’t stop him from dragging Castiel into the back bench, though.

Getting Dean’s clothes off takes more effort than it should, mostly because Castiel won’t stop touching him with reverence. Gentle hands slide Dean’s overshirt off while Dean undoes the fly of his jeans, threatening to rip the zipper in half. Between them, they get Dean naked, and Dean shoves a foil packet into Castiel’s hand.

Straddling him is easy; kissing him, though, is even harder than it was before, even in the dark. The moon is gone tonight, an omen if Dean ever saw one, and the stars watch solemnly, the two bodies begin to writhe. Tearing the wrapper with his teeth, Castiel slicks his fingers and slides one inside, no preamble but everything Dean needs. Slowly, Castiel moves and kisses the bare expanse of Dean’s chest, lapping at his nipples and sucking marks into the flesh of his stomach; Dean throws his head back and rides Castiel’s finger, gripping the rusted metal of the Super, rust flakes peeling off into his hands.

“Another,” Dean begs, red-faced and ashamed. His cock wilts between his legs, half hard and waning; even being held so intimately, so freely, he can’t find it in himself to feel, to want like he used to, back when the world was simpler and being with Castiel like this wasn’t so blasphemous, so mind-numbingly horrifying.

A second finger slips inside, gliding smoothly along with the first, and all is lost. “You’re beautiful,” Castiel mentions, nipping the warm column of Dean’s throat. Dean flushes, turns his face away. “Dean, look at me.”

“Don’t,” Dean mutters, caught between a wheeze and a sob. Still, Castiel holds him, one hand cupping the curve of his hip, the other plunging inside, three fingers splitting him wide. “Fuck, Cas, not now.”

“I’m sorry.” Castiel kisses him, the barest hint of tongue sweeping across Dean’s lip; Dean all but sobs, tears slipping through closed eyelids. “I’m sorry I hurt you like this.”

“Don’t,” Dean hisses, the words caught in his throat. “I swear to God, Cas, don’t start this. C’mon, just…”

One handed, Dean frees Castiel’s cock from his slacks and strokes him rough and fast; Castiel’s been hard since Dean first kissed him, probably just from having hands on him that weren’t attempting to maim him at first sight; now, he’s dripping, pulsing thick in Dean’s grip and slick to the root. Dean takes him like that, replacing Castiel’s fingers with his cock, despite the burn and the stretch of him, impossibly huge in the dark.

For a while, Dean moves. Slow at first, merely building a rhythm he can fall into. But his nerves still fire, even when Castiel kisses him, when Castiel palms his hips; once, Castiel kisses his heart, and Dean very nearly breaks. Castiel keeps him steady, though, just as he always has: with praises, with gentle hands and even softer words. “Don’t let me die,” Dean chokes, one hand fisted atop the Super, the other gripping Castiel’s coat. Always that stupid coat. “Cas, you can’t—I don’t wanna die, I don’t want Sammy to die.”

“I won’t let you,” Castiel whispers; his hold on Dean’s hips tightens, keeping him still. Between them, Dean’s cock sags, flaccid. “Why are you punishing yourself like this?”

“Because I deserve it,” Dean sobs, face buried in Castiel’s shoulder. “I started this shit, and now everyone’s gonna die because I can’t own up to my mistakes.” Slowly, Castiel’s hands creep between Dean’s shoulders, holding him tighter. “I don’t—You should’ve left my ass,” he laughs, hysteric and snot-filled. “Being tortured was easier than this.”

“Don’t talk about yourself like that,” Castiel chides. His kiss tastes like nothing, but it’s everything Dean wants, all he’s ever needed. His kiss, and nothing more. “You’re a good man, Dean Winchester. I’m sorry I ever doubted that about you, but we can fight this.” Another kiss. Castiel slips out of him, only to shove Dean onto the patchy upholstery; a spring digs into Dean’s spine, unnoticed. “I won’t abandon you, not again. Not while you need me.”

Dean thought he knew Castiel’s mouth before, but he never anticipated how it would feel on his cock; soft as he is, Castiel’s fingers coax him out of his misery and into the moment, a brief second where Castiel is the only thing that exists. Two fingers stroke his prostate while Castiel sucks Dean’s cock, tongue laving hot trails along the underside, working him into some semblance of hardness.

Stress keeps him limp, though, no matter how good it feels. Clutching Castiel by the hair only spurs him on, the soft noises of his mouth going straight to his groin. “Cas,” he whines, but for what, he doesn’t know. For safety, for protection, for solace—for death, even. All of it would be better than the ache in his chest, the despair choking his throat, tears spilling into his hair. “Cas, please…”

Just barely, Dean manages not to shout when Castiel shoves back inside, Dean’s legs pulled around Castiel’s waist, Castiel’s hands bracketing Dean’s head. Each thrust earns a curt shout, muffled by kisses and a hand over Dean’s mouth, once. “I will not let you die,” Castiel hisses. “Listen to me, Dean.”

“I can’t.” With all of his strength, Dean clings to him, head buried in the curve of Castiel’s neck. It’s too much all at once, to feel Castiel’s admiration pour into him, the utter confirmation that Castiel will stay—Castiel will help them fight, no matter if it kills him.

In that moment, Dean knows, he can’t bear to lose him either.

“You will survive this,” Castiel whispers while Dean cries out, nails digging into Castiel’s coat. “You will survive, and you’ll live, and you’ll defy what the prophets have spoken of for centuries. You’ll be greater than anything you’ve ever known. Do you hear me?” Again, Dean shakes his head, inwardly hoping Castiel can’t see him in the dark. “Live, Dean. For your brother, for Bobby, for yourself.”

“Not without you.”

Above him, Castiel freezes, winded for an entirely different reason. “Dean, I’m not—”

“You gotta make it too, you hear me?” Humiliation colors his face even redder, thankfully muted by the shadows. “I can’t go on like this if you die. You’re my best friend, man, I can’t… I can’t lose you either.”

This time, Castiel kisses him with promise on his tongue. Never in his life has Dean ever felt more guilty.

Castiel comes shortly after that, with his lips on Dean’s and Dean holding him tight, soothing Castiel’s shivers and waiting for him to still. He pulls out a while later, the absence left in his wake even deeper than before. “Don’t go,” Dean begs, only because he’s been on the receiving end far too long to know how this goes. Castiel will think he’s a pitiful excuse for a human and leave him to wallow in his own anguish. Dean didn’t even come—he can’t, not like this. On his last day on earth, he can’t even come, no matter how much he wants to.

No matter how much he wants Castiel, he can’t even give him that, as a last thank you.

But Castiel doesn’t leave, no. Instead, he rolls Dean onto his side and holds him, his back pressed to the worn leather and Dean tucked in close; bare legs brush against slacks, and Castiel’s coat drapes over his thigh, keeping him warm. “I’m sorry,” Dean mourns, brushing away the wetness on his face. Later, when the sun rises, he’ll be mortified, and he’ll have to bear it while the world crumbles around him.

Castiel will be gone too—he didn’t realize how much he needed him before, not until now.

“I won’t leave you,” Castiel assures him, lips kissing marks along his nape. “This won’t be the last time we see each other.”

 _But it will be_ , Dean thinks, burrowing his head into the upholstery; _we’ll be dead in the morning, and you’ll hate me when it’s ove_ r. Just what he wants to do, to let down an Angel, one last time.

“Why won’t you believe me?” Castiel asks.

Dean curls in closer, burying himself in Castiel’s embrace. _If only I knew myself_.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so maybe I lied about going away to edit. Enjoy this random thing that popped into my head at noon! 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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